Down Under
by deinvati
Summary: Eames learns a thing or two the night drunk Arthur waxes poetic about the shape of words and then runs up a wall. Pre-slash, A/E silly fluff.


A/N: Inspired by the guy from Australia I talked to at work for several hours, as well as the JGL opening SNL monologue where he sang "Make 'em Laugh". My thanks to brooke, my fabulous kiwi beta, for the quick squizz!

* * *

"No, it was a good one. A good job," Arthur clarified and threw back two more fingers of the Johnnie Walker Blue he'd been drinking, although he was clearly past the point where he normally stopped. Eames watched, fascinated, and wondered how far he'd go, now that it was just the two of them sitting at the bar. Arthur was starting to sway on his stool.

"Not half bad, not half bad," Eames agreed.

"You know," Arthur said, shaking a finger at Eames, "I've always been a fan of your work."

Eames grinned at him and toasted Arthur with his own tumbler. "And I've always been a fan of your tight trousers, darling."

Arthur hummed with a sloppy smile. "And _I've_ always been a fan of your… words."

"My...words? Arthur," Eames chuckled, "I think you may be drunk.'

"No, nononono. Your wooords, Eames," Arthur said, licking his lips and trying to enunciate. "I like the way you say them with your _mouth_."

"Well, God help me if I start saying them with something else."

"I don't like Toby's words," Arthur continued, scowling.

"No?" Eames smirked. "Tell me more, dear Arthur." Eames was sick to death of the Australian extractor they'd been working with while they were in the country. He was tanned and poncy and smarmy with perfect too-white teeth, and he'd barely stopped hitting on Arthur the whole bloody job. Arthur had never given him the time of day, but then, he never gave Eames the time of day either. However, Arthur had never frowned and told Eames that he "had all the help he needed, thanks," like he'd told Toby yesterday, and Eames would clutch that one to his chest for quite a while. But Eames was certainly willing to listen to Arthur talk about what he didn't like about Toby-the-Bastard for as long as he wanted to talk about it.

"Toby's words lay down in his mouth when he talks," Arthur said, matter-of-fact. Then in a perfect Melbourne accent, he said, "I dunno, mate. We're gonna have ta try it out. We do things a bit different down here." He made a face. "Blugh. His mouth makes them all fall sideways."

Eames blinked.

"Your words stand up, Eames," Arthur slurred, pointing a finger into Eames' chest. "No? Tell me more, dear Arthur," Arthur said in a pretty spot-on imitation of Eames' accent. "They stand up tall in your mouth," he continued, "cuz you're a stand-up guy."

Eames' mouth was suddenly dry as Arthur stared up at him, wide-eyed and honest.

"Eames. You are. The stand-uppy-est guy I know."

Arthur had leaned forward into Eames' space, and Eames could feel Arthur's warm breath on his face. He smelled like whiskey, and Eames wondered if he'd taste like it too.

"Well," Eames said, clearing his throat and hopefully the air, "sounds like you should have been a Forger, darling. Can you do any other accents?"

Arthur's brow furrowed as he looked at Eames in confusion. "Accents? Psssshhhhhhh, I can't do any accents. What are you talking about?"

Eames blinked away the whiskey breath blown in his face and grunted with the weight of an Arthur tipped too far forward. "Okay, darling, let's get you home. I think it's time to call it a night."

"It's a night," Arthur said with a nod and slipped into a semi-standing position, as Eames fumbled a few bills onto the counter, then with a glance at Arthur's glass, a few more.

He wrapped an arm around Arthur's waist to keep him upright and steer him towards the door.

"Hey!" Arthur gasped. "We should go dancing!"

Eames scoffed in amazement. "Arthur, now I know you're proper pissed. You're going to a hotel room before you fall on your face."

Arthur scowled at him. " 'm not gonna fall on my face. I'm drunk, not unskilled at walking."

They stepped onto the sidewalk, the warm air washing over them.

"I can do all kinds of things when I'm drunk," Arthur continued, still scowling at him. " 'm pretty sure I can do _more_ things when I'm drunk."

"Mm hmm," Eames hummed as he searched in vain for a cab to flag down. "I'm sure that's true."

"It _is_ true," Arthur insisted loudly. "Here, hold my jacket." He was shrugging out of it even as Eames tried to protest.

"No, Arthur, I'm sure you, oh...kay." He accepted the heap of pinstripe which probably cost more than two or three of his outfits. "Just don't do anything—"

"I'm going to run up the wall."

" — stupid."

Arthur took off at a full run, straight at the side of the building. Then, at the last second, he kicked off the wall and did a perfect round off. He landed on his feet, his hands hovering in the air for a second before he looked back at Eames.

"Ha!"

Eames closed his mouth. "Um."

"Wanna see it again?"

"I mean," Eames swallowed, "I… no, no you shouldn't probably do it aga-okay…" he said in a daze as Arthur took another runup to the wall and did it again.

"Whoooo!" he said, laughing as he landed it perfectly. "Damn, it's been a long time since I did that! You didn't think I could do it."

"I…" Eames said helplessly. "I'll know better than to doubt you next time, Arthur."

Arthur grinned at him, both dimples on full display, and Eames marvelled at the man with flushed cheeks and tousled hair who had replaced the straight-laced pointman listing off his barstool from inside. "Want to see what else I can do?"

Just then, a cab pulled to the curb and Eames flagged it down.

"Honestly, Arthur?" Eames said, holding the door open for him, "I really, really do. But maybe tomorrow, hmm?" He held out Arthur's jacket, and Arthur slid his arms into the sleeves, smiling.

"Okay," he said happily enough. "Remind me, okay?"

"Oh, I definitely will," Eames grinned as Arthur got into the cab.

"You know who has a great accent?" Arthur said, crawling across the back seat of the taxi.

"Hmm?" Eames asked, slightly distracted by the way Arthur's trousers really were sinfully tight.

"Karl Urban."

Eames ducked in after him and leaned forward to give the cabbie the address for Arthur's hotel. "What was that?" he asked Arthur.

"Karl Urban. The actor?" Arthur settled himself against the door, then as the taxi pulled away from the curb, tried to take his jacket off again.

Eames tried to help and keep from being hit in the face at the same time. "Arthur, darling, you just…" he sighed.

"It's really round," Arthur said, narrowly missing Eames' nose and not getting any further out of his jacket.

"Round?"

"Yeah, the Kiwi accents are rounder."

Eames grabbed Arthur's arm and held the sleeve. "Pull," he commanded and helped Arthur tug one arm out of the jacket. He watched Arthur try to twist around to get out of the other one, and Eames managed to catch it and pull. What he ended up with was a lap full of Arthur.

"But you know what?" Arthur asked, his face inches from Eames' own, and his voice low and soft.

"What?" Eames asked, frozen, and staring into brown eyes with flecks of gold in them.

"I like your accent best."

Eames didn't want to move, ever again. "Well, I do have great, stand uppy words. From my mouth," he said, trying for a smile.

"Because I like you best," Arthur said, earnest and unblinking.

Eames couldn't breathe. "Arthur…"

Then Arthur threw up on his shoes.


End file.
